Take It
by neutralgray
Summary: Flashback to a high school football game of Morgan's. Warnings: allusion to sexual abuse of a minor and victim-blaming, uncensored use of a gay slur (f-word), description of a sports injury.


It's only his sixth game as the main QB, but Coach was pleased with his performance during summer training, and decided to promote him to starter for the beginning of the new season since their former one graduated, full-ride, to Northwestern. Told him to keep up his admirable work ethic both on and off the field and he'd be good to go by the time the recruiters started scouting prospects for the next year or two. It's been sound advice so far; the team is 5-0-0 and the rush that comes with consecutive wins is undeniably enjoyable. Something about a stadium full of people chanting and cheering them on causes his pulse to race and makes him want to prove how ready he is to fill in the substantial shoes left behind.

He doesn't let it get to his head, though. That's never a good idea. It's a home game tonight, but a tough one; the Bears aren't a particularly skilled team, no better than them, but are infamous for their rough takedowns and cheap shots slid in behind the refs' backs. Coach has prepared them and, during his pre-game pep talk, warns them to keep cool and focus on playing fairly and well. The group nods enthusiastically, huddling in for a quick cheer, before jogging out onto the field, greeted by shouts from a good portion of the student body that have come to show their support.

Derek can see his breath cloud out in front of him as the first play is called, settling into a stance that promotes a low center of gravity behind the line, and waits. The snap is clean and he completes the throw, just like in practice. Four more downs result in their first points being scored and the crowd stands to yell, impressed by their efficiency.

Unfortunately, it doesn't last long. Third quarter sees them down by twenty-five and counting; morale is low, the field is slick and the cold is getting to them. Derek's gear feels extraordinarily heavy on his frame and he's struggling to keep his footing as he searches futilely for a lane, cradling the ball in one arm. The Bears seem to be faring a little better than them; they've had a few exceptionally dirty takedowns that have resulted in fumbles and bruises inflicted on Derek's team that they'll be feeling for weeks.

Then it happens: Shawn and James slip up, can't block in time and number forty-five, a linebacker for the opposition, breaks through, heading straight for Derek who's now unprotected. _Shit_. The guy's probably got at least three inches and thirty pounds on him, and he's been roughing them up all night, not caring if his elbow 'accidentally' catches a chin or two. Derek knows he can't deke in time and tries to prepare himself for the hit, closing his mouth and waits until... _crunch_. Forty-five's helmet plows into his chest, arms wrapped around Derek's midriff in a death grip as he hauls him down, making sure he lands directly on top of Derek, whose head whips back into the ground.

He's completely disoriented for a moment, and thinks that's going to be the worst of it, until he realizes he can still feel the guy's weight along the length of his body. Blinking rapidly, he squints up through his face mask as the other leers at him. He's white, and his eyes glitter with malice as he smirks down at Derek, slapping his helmet and yelling, "Is this seriously how you play? D'you just lie down and take it from your _daddy_, too, boy?" As he leaps up, pounding a fist against his chest, he screams, "Fucking faggot think he knows what's up! This is _our_ turf now, got that?"

Then he's gone, jogging over to his teammates who clap him on the back in agreement, and Derek's still on his back on the grass, staring up at the sky. He wants to shake it off; forty-five's been running his mouth all game and it hasn't bothered him until now. But the words keep chasing themselves 'round and 'round in his head, ringing in his ears. '_D'you just lie down and _take_ it_?' '_Faggot_.'

He can barely remember Coach running over with an assistant, carefully helping him to stand, and leading him back to the bench where he takes off his helmet and ducks his head down, ignoring the 'brush it off' comments directed his way. God, he feels sick now; his head is pounding and his stomach churns uncomfortably.

And somehow, he can't quite accredit it to the possible concussion taking its toll on his body.

_If they only knew._


End file.
